


Vicious

by JuliaJekyll



Series: Good Omens One Shots [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), First Kiss, Language, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: Crowley can't take it anymore. Neither can Aziraphale, as it turns out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens One Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544350
Comments: 28
Kudos: 218





	Vicious

When you’ve been around as long as Crowley has, you see a lot of things change, and the language that the people around you speak is no exception. Celestial beings have a knack for language learning, though, so it’s relatively easy for them to adapt. It’s so easy, in fact, that occasionally they forget about what went before. After all, human brains, which they’re restricted to when inhabiting human bodies, can only retain so much information. Crowley could speak Latin two thousand years ago; now he’s pretty sure he couldn’t string a coherent sentence together if he tried. Hell, he cringes when he tries to read Shakespeare, or anything that was written before about 1800.

Not that he reads books, of course. He doesn’t.

One word he’s always liked is the word  _ vicious.  _ He thinks it’s one of the very,  _ very  _ few good things to come out of the fourteenth century. It’s a nice word from an aesthetic point of view, but most importantly, Crowley thinks it’s the most perfect possible word to describe his feelings for Aziraphale.

Crowley is no etymologist, but he knows that  _ vicious  _ is related to  _ vice.  _ Aziraphale is, and always has been, Crowley’s vice.

Nowadays,  _ vicious  _ is usually used to refer to animals, particularly the kind known for attacking without provocation. It required very little provocation – all Aziraphale had to do was give away his flaming sword and engage in a simple conversation – to make Crowley fall in raging, undying,  _ vicious  _ love.

The love is painful. It gnaws at him like it has teeth, like it’s a carnivore. It makes his skin ache, makes him yearn, makes him crave. 

It’s awful. It’s agonizing. It’s an absolute  _ bitch.  _

Over the centuries, he’s managed to suppress it to some degree. It’s always there, but most of the time it’s not at the forefront of his mind. It’s only occasionally that it flares up, when Aziraphale starts prattling delightedly on about a new book he’s acquired, or displays that dry, sardonic humor of his, or, you know, helps Crowley save the world. 

And now that the world's been saved and they're sitting in the back of the bookshop slowly getting drunk, his love is shredding his stomach, making a fire in his blood hot enough to sear the edges of his organs, creating an almost tangible pain that has him slumping forward in his chair as if to fend off further attacks, even though that's impossible since the creature is  _ inside him _ . It's wearing him down, biting him, chewing him, stronger and hungrier for his pain than it's been in years and years. 

He cannot stand it. He's weak. 

He looks over at Aziraphale, who is staring dreamily up at the ceiling, his fingers stroking absentmindedly over a half-full glass of red. He suddenly seems entirely too far away. Crowley is drawn to him, and the attraction is fiercer than it’s ever been. He throbs with desire, so relentless he’s surprised it doesn’t burst out of his skin. 

He cannot stay in this chair. He has to go somewhere, and there are only two options. He can go over to Aziraphale and feed the creature after starving it for all these years, or he can leave. He can take what he's always wanted, or give up on it forever. 

He stands, still undecided but too restless to remain sitting down for another second. He sways a little. His empty wine glass dangles from his hand.

"Another, dear boy?" Aziraphale asks, hand already wrapping around the neck of the bottle because he's certain Crowley will say yes. 

Crowley decides. He will not. 

"I...I think I'mma go, actually, angel," he says, his words unsteady. Is his body listing to the side? It shouldn't be. 

"Go?" Aziraphale repeats, sounding utterly baffled, as if the idea of Crowley leaving is impossible to contemplate. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I'm... I'm going to go back to mine." He can’t do it. He’s as much a coward as he’s always been. He’s been so close, so many times, but he’s scared. Terrified, really. Too bloody terrified to ever actually go through with it. 

He feels his face burn. 

Aziraphale stares at him. The confusion in his eyes is plain to see. "I...I don't understand. Why would you go? We're celebrating!" He stands up and gestures to the bookshop at large. "We've got so much to celebrate, I'm sure it's worth an extra few glasses at least, my dear." He smiles, and it absolutely does Crowley in. The bits of his heart that haven't yet been devoured by the viciousness of his love pulse with adoration, and his flesh tingles and burns with scorchingly bright desire. He's a mess of pain and want, and he cannot do this anymore. The self-denial is no longer sustainable. 

The animal in him (or maybe it's just his demonic core) flares bright red. He looks at Aziraphale. This is the meat that the vicious creature of his love craves, and Satan, Crowley wants a bite. 

Literally. He wants to sink his teeth into Aziraphale's collarbone and then lick it. He wants to feast on the angel's lips, gorge himself on his cock. He is  _ hungry. _

"Angel." Crowley's voice is hoarse. He's hard as well, he realizes suddenly; his dick has swelled nearly to full capacity and is pressing insistently against his tight jeans. There's no way Aziraphale can't see it. 

They stare at each other. How can he close this gap? 

He takes a step toward Aziraphale. Aziraphale mirrors it. 

Aziraphale opens his mouth. "Don't go," he says softly. "Please, don't go."

Crowley gulps. "Why?" he chokes out. "Surely you don't want me hanging around here all night."

"I most certainly do," Aziraphale says firmly. Crowley sees his throat work, knows he wants to say more, waits to hear it. "All night tonight," the angel says, looking into his eyes, "and every night thereafter. If you want to, of course." 

Crowley is stunned. His glass falls to the floor. 

Surely this isn't happening. 

He sobers up. 

"Aziraphale, what are you saying?" he asks. His love for the angel is all he can feel, all over his body, all across the planes of his skin. In his heart, in his groin, in his very soul, assuming he's still got one. 

Aziraphale sobers up too, and his nostrils flare as he breathes in deep. "I'm saying I want you, Crowley," he says, his voice quiet but strong. "I'm ready now. I'm sorry I never was before, but I am now. Please, be mine." He takes another step.

Crowley is trembling. He can't swallow. He can't move.

"I…" it's more a croak than a word. Crowley isn't breathing. Aziraphale waits. 

Crowley breathes in. Back out. What can he say? His head his spinning; this is so absolutely unexpected that he has no sense of how to react. Dizzy, he collapses back into his chair. 

Aziraphale comes over and kneels beside him. He places one hand over Crowley’s, but Crowley barely feels it; he’s too focused on the sheer impossibility of what’s going on right now. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, gentle and soft. “If you’re not...if you don’t-”

“Don’t talk nonsense, angel.” Crowley shakes his head. Automatically, he flips his hand so that he can hold Aziraphale’s. “I have been waiting for this for literal millennia.” 

A light comes on in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley meets his gaze. God, or Satan, or whatever, he’s beautiful.

"I...it has to be you," Crowley says, the words spilling shakily out. "If you...if you want it, it has to be you. I can't. I  _ can't. _ " Even now, he can't, because he's not sure. Because demons do not get what they want. They don't get to fall in love and have that love returned. It's all so unbelievable that he will not be convinced until Aziraphale is in his lap and kissing him. 

And then, in a flash of motion, Aziraphale is in his lap and kissing him. 

Crowley is full to the brim as he opens his mouth. Aziraphale is pressing into him, feeding his love, giving Crowley what he wants. He's so happy, and so in love, and so  _ relieved, _ and  _ fuck,  _ he's hard.

They kiss, and it’s wet and intense and  _ unbelievable.  _ After several crashingly delectable seconds, Crowley feels hands on his face, pushing him back, separating them. For a second, he's absolutely terrified that Aziraphale might have changed his mind. 

"I love you," Aziraphale says firmly, his eyes blazing blue, his grip not allowing Crowley any room to pull further away. "I love you, and shall continue to do so forever. I am in love with you, Anthony Just-a-J Crowley, and I want you to be mine. If you'll have me."

It’s easy now. There’s only one thing to say.  _ "Yes,"  _ Crowley hisses. "Yes, angel, yes,  _ yes,  _ I love you too; I always have. Please,  _ please- _ " 

Before he can beg for another kiss - and he would have begged, make no mistake - Aziraphale is kissing him again, his mouth warm and wanting and absolutely  _ everywhere.  _

"You feel...so good," Aziraphale tells him, saying the words directly into Crowley's searching mouth, right onto his desperate tongue. 

"Oh, angel," Crowley says, his hands skimming up and down the angel's back, the vicious love threatening to explode his chest, "do you have any idea how much I love you?"

"I do _ , _ " Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley again. "I know, my darling. I know.” 

Crowley groans. Unable to help himself, he pushes his hips up so that Aziraphale can feel how hard he is. "Angel…" he says. "Can I...can we…?"

In response, Aziraphale reaches down and presses the heel of his hand against the outline of Crowley's straining erection. 

"Oh,  _ fuck, _ " Crowley gasps. "Angel,  _ fuck… _ "

"Can I take them off?" Aziraphale asks, his mouth tracing up Crowley's neck. 

"They're going to pop if you don't," Crowley moans, kissing haphazardly at Aziraphale's forehead. "I'm really,  _ really  _ turned on." 

"I can tell." Aziraphale's fingers work at the button and zip on Crowley's trousers, and Crowley bites his lip when he feels the angel's hand on his bare skin, pushing his pants out of the way to get at his cock. 

Crowley is wet already; he can feel it when Aziraphale strokes him. "Gorgeous," Aziraphale murmurs, before releasing Crowley's cock and beginning to undo his shirt. 

Crowley grasps clumsily for Aziraphale's clothes, and there begins a frantic disrobing that lasts for several seconds. When they're both naked, they simply look at each other, both still a little shocked that this is happening. Shocked and endlessly grateful. 

The vicious, painful desire and longing that Crowley has felt for ages is calmer now that he can actually have what he craves, but it's still there, demanding  _ more.  _ He runs his shaking hands over Aziraphale's chest, his shoulders, his stomach, as Aziraphale watches him with his mouth slightly open and his eyes filled with equal parts tenderness and lust. 

Imagine. The demon Anthony J. Crowley, the object of an angel's lust. 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale again, amazed that he can. That he's allowed to. That Aziraphale  _ wants  _ him to.

"Aziraphale, do you love me?" he asks. He still can't quite believe it; he never thought this day would come. He thought he'd be eaten alive one day, by his longing or his cowardice, whichever came first. 

"I do," Aziraphale says. "I loved you when you saved me in France, when you saved my books, when you saved the  _ world. _ You are a wonder, my sweetheart, and I  _ adore _ you." He kisses Crowley's throat, and it feels  _ so good.  _

Crowley needs more. He needs everything. It’s going to be a long, long time before his hunger is sated. It might never be. 

Crowley throws his head back. "Angel, I want you.” 

“You’ll have me, my love. You’ll have me forever.” He looks up at Crowley, eyes sparkling. “Bedroom?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoyed the fic? Let me know!
> 
> Also, if you'd like to come cry about Good Omens with me on Tumblr, I can be found here: https://julia-writes-fanfic.tumblr.com/


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